FANTASIA B

David Eidboff’s commitment to serial killing, compared to that of his predecessors, is less than ironclad, prone to lulls and dispersions of intent. Nevertheless, over the years, he’s managed to consume a fair number of people from around town. Enough, indeed, to have diminished its population notably and turned its recent history into something it would not otherwise have been.

He’s moody about a lot of things, and often unavailable for comment as he serves his life sentence in the town’s private (or at least usually uninhabited except for him) prison, and sometimes seems far enough from murderousness that public opinion starts to question whether he is fully the man he’s considered to be, but the one thing he doesn’t leave hanging or take lightly is his stage show. He’s always been very outspoken about his duty to entertain his victims’ families, and takes himself as a performer more seriously than anyone else in town takes anything. It’s been said by some that he also uses his performance-reprieves from prison to scan the audience for new victims (he’s fond of eliminating certain links in extended families).

What’s undeniable is that, when he gets onstage (the warden releases him for the night whenever he announces a new show, and you better believe the venue gets packed), he’s 100% focused on providing the townsfolk whose lives he’s ruined a few hours’ quality escape.

The Giant Chinese delivery ambulance doubles as a prison van, so that’s where David Eidboff is now, shackled in back, thinking fondly of movies he watched as a kid featuring serial killers shackled in the backs of prison vans just like this one, waiting to make their move.

Mac and Chiara’s café and bar, called Mac & Chiara’s new cafe is the venue for tonight’s event.

They’ve been hustling all afternoon to get it ready: microphones, lighting, and, at David Eidboff’s agent’s request, a buffet table with hotplates and heated tureens.

Mac and Chiara, still new in town, are excited to host it – Eidboff’s shows used to be held at another establishment that burned down, so tonight marks the first time it’ll be held with them … their chance to make an impression, show they’re up with things, help make a place for themselves and their newborn (at home tonight with a Craigslist sitter).

So they’re a little manic, bumping into each other, drinking too much coffee and eating too many sweets and not enough what they used to call “real food” … but they’re starting to feel ready.

They are not, though, as it turns out, ready for what David Eidboff, standing outside now as the Giant Chinese ambulance speeds away, shows up with, which is: Two David Eidboff’s.

“This one’s me and that one’s my clone,” he says.

Mac and Chiara can’t be sure where the time went, whether into a swoon or a warp or what. They’d been certain there was at least an hour for sound check and warm-up and welcoming the guests as they filed in and ordered drinks, and even prepared some welcoming remarks to deliver onstage, but – and maybe it was just the shock of the two Eidboff’s, one looking strong and vicious, the other sickly and broken-down like a side of beef – things segued or lapsed for them seamlessly from the moment of opening the door to the moment of watching the two Eidboff’s facing a capacity crowd.

There he is, in a fine-looking blue suit, tailored in a style that screams “Old World,” strutting circles around his clone, who wavers in a plastic kiddie pool filling with blood from his joints – knees, elbows, wrists – which are all broken, bones sticking out like they’ve been prepped that way, sheathed.

The buffet’s decked out with nachos, sliders, curly fries, onion rings, and three pitchers of beer. Eidboff isn’t eating yet, but he has a hungry look.

He approaches the mic, scanning the audience for – if you subscribe to this theory – new victims. Otherwise, just basking in the turnout.

Lynda from the news station is in the audience, of course, checking her several phones like they’re boiling pots that require constant attention, her camera rolling.

“He’s the only one I ever wanted to hurt,” declares Eidboff into the mic, looking from the audience to his clone and back again.

“I’m the only one you ever wanted to hurt?” asks the clone incredulously, though whether he finds the notion insulting or flattering is unclear.

“All the others were only practice,” Eidboff insists. “Only a game of hiding from my true self. Of trying to shunt the damage waiting to be done onto unwitting surrogates.”

A sound comes off the audience that’s about half gasp and half groan, as if, for some, this hits like hardcore drama, while for others it’s just standard pre-bedtime fluff. He mimes wiping a tear, then grins and steps to the buffet and takes up a fistful of fries, stuffing it in his mouth, chasing it with another. Then onion rings, pickle spears, chicken nuggets.

HERE'S THE TRANSITION POINT:

the mood shifts from mellow to livid.Eidboff rips off his blue suit and starts capering around the stage in what looks like the leotard of a Mexican Lucha Libre wrestler, flexing one side of his body while filling the other with beer and burgers, then vice versa.

The clone wants to crawl away but his broken bones won’t let him.

Eidboff takes his time draining the first beer pitcher, eats half a pizza, and then struts over to the clone, hoisting him out of the kiddie pool and dumping him on the stage.

“Are you human or just another effigy?” he bellows down at him. This seems like a line everyone in the audience knows. They cheer and repeat it.

Eidboff seems to grow up toward the ceiling as the clone tries to slip down through a trapdoor. Since this is a magic show, there might well be one in the stage, but it turns out tonight there isn’t.

With a wink at the crowd, Eidboff leans in and, slowly, pulls out his clone’s left bone, holding it over his head while the forearm skin dangles like an empty leather purse.

The clone makes babyish gasps.

The crowd chants “Hit him!” and leans in close, waving fistfuls of money. Eidboff winds way up like a maverick golf pro with his own patented technique, then whacks the clone in the face, knocking him halfway across the stage, where he comes to a skidding halt.

Eidboff takes a bow and returns to the buffet, rubbing his stomach through the leotard like a clownish ogre.

He puts on a long, full show, ripping out first his clone’s other forearm, then both upper arms, then both shins and femurs, giving the head and torso a hard, thorough beating with each one.

In the course of this, Eidboff consumes the rest of the buffet spread and the third beer pitcher, knocks over the table and all the dirty dishes and silverware, and stomps the kiddie pool to pieces, kicking it around the stage and mixing it up with the remnants of his clone, so that, by the end, there’s only one mess up there, not two – blood and ketchup, chicken bones and clone bones, skin and paper napkins, beer froth and weird stomach bile, all flowing together. “Phew,” says Eidboff, wiping his brow back up at the mic. “I really had to get that out of my system. I don’t know about you folks, but I’m just about ready for a shower.” Wild, deranged cheering, more barking laughter.This cheering continues as Mac and Chiara come to, out of whatever panic coma they fell into partway through the show.

They look around and the place is empty. Onstage sit a number of stuffed heavy-duty trash bags and two of those yellow WET FLOOR / PISO MOJADO signs, like some janitor has already dealt with whatever was up there. They look at each other, as if for confirmation that what they think happened didn’t actually happen, but neither is in a position to offer that to the other.

While each is working up to asking or saying something aloud, a sharp throat-clearing startles them out of it.

David Eidboff and Gerb, his agent, stand before them.

Gerb hands over a double-sided sheet of paper, which he has to hold out for a long time before Mac and Chiara’s hands manage to grip it.

“An itemized bill for tonight’s entertainment costs,” he says.

Eidboff is back in his blue suit, looking perfectly clean, his hair gelled and face shaven, his expression almost benign.

“Just,” Chiara finally mutters, crumpling the itemized bill, certain it’s something she never wants to see, “tell us how much we owe you.”

Gerb, happy to oblige, quotes a number so high it causes the whole scene to black out.